Fantastic
by Sarimia
Summary: -OC-centric-  She's thrown into emptiness, then spit back out in a stranger place, where boys make magic and science. The Knowledge lingers on the edge of her mind, creating more problems than solving, and the first thing she has to do is grow up.


**A/N: This is a rewrite of a leftover story. I don't know where it's headed, but I figured it'd be a fun and leisurely ride. It will not have regular updates. I'm looking for feedback- plot holes, character infrequencies, the works. Anything you think that's off. Most of it I can explain away because it's the first chapter, but wait until we get a bit more in depth.**

**I don't own any recognizeable characters. **

**Summary: We focus on Kali, a teenager with a tragic and unknown death that throws her first to the Gate, and then to the world of Amestris. The strangest happening is, she's not fourteen anymore, but four, and very, very lost. And all the while, the things she learned while in the Gate linger in her unconscious, like a nagging feeling that won't go away- something is always going wrong.**

* * *

I used to think that I knew everything. That all that I'd experienced in the world was all I needed, and that what I said ruled above all, my judgement was just and complete. I used to think that the world was peaceful and life was great.

Until it wasn't.

When I was fourteen, I was kidnapped. I can't remember where I was, or when, or who kidnapped me—I think it was the day after new-years, but I can't be sure.

All I knew was that it was dark, painful… and then not.

Several days later, I floated in an empty space that was nothing waiting for something to fill it, something as big as the world because the space was too big.

And while I floated, I really _did _know everything. The idea of it was terrifying, because knowing everything meant that you knew how dangerous your knowledge was.

I knew the meaning of life, how it really began and how it really ended. What was to become of all my friends, my family, my world and the other world of fictional beings.

I knew that I wasn't really supposed to die, but I couldn't go back into my world without screwing up the Balance or breaking the Rules. So I figured the only way out was into the fictional world of fictional beings.

So I waited.

* * *

The waiting paid off.

It was like waking up, where everything in your dream scooted to the edge of your consciousness, and the more you reach for the information, the colours and images, the more it evades you. The knowledge was stuck on the border between consciousness and unconsciousness, and there wasn't much I could do with it, so I just let it sit and let the world seep back into existence. There was a deep feeling of loss, but I couldn't focus, couldn't determine what was making me feel that way.

I couldn't feel anything. I knew I was twitching my fingers, I knew I was lying on my back, but everything from head to toe was fuzzy, like the wrong channel on cable TV. Pain was the only other sensation, ripping from my throat as if I had the worst cough.

It was raining. I couldn't open my eyes; the water sealed them, and stung whenever I tried to see. I was naked—it was _cold_, and my tiny body was wracked with shivers and pinpricks from the rain.

Along with the freezing rainwater, tears flowed from my eyes, warm tears that dripped past my temples and into my hair, melding with the rain.

I couldn't feel anything, and the sound of rain slipped away.

Sounding very far away, there was a shout, and multiple dots of light and pain.

* * *

Then it was warm. For a long time, it was warm, and I was still. I didn't want to move at all, because if I did, the warmth might go away.

I curled into myself. A hand shook my shoulder.

"Hey," someone said. A child? I didn't care. I didn't want to move.

My throat hurt, felt raw. I winced as I swallowed. My fingers twitched.

"Heey," the kid said again. I grumbled in response and tried to pull the blanket over my head—but that was it. The moment I started recognizing names for the objects around me (child; blanket; bed; pillow) I was awake.

I opened my eyes, and felt very small.

A girl with blue eyes and blonde hair blinked down at me, and it took me a few moments to realize that she was kneeling on the bed next to me, rather than towering above me.

I swallowed. Again, I winced, then raised a hand to rub the dried tears from my eyes.

The girl smiled brightly, and the feeling of purity that could only come from a child's soul radiated off of her. She hopped off the bed as I sat up, and ran out of the room calling someone's name.

Vaguely, I was aware that huge amounts of time had passed while I was suspended in the void of nothingness, and that I was much, _much _smaller than I should have been.

A look at my pudgy arms and hands confirmed it. Short fingernails, loads of baby fat and tiny, fumbling fingers.

These were not my hands—my hands were small, yes, but they weren't a child's. My nails were supposed to be a reasonable length, and my fingers were slightly crooked, as if they'd been pressed into the wrong shape.

I flexed my hands a bit, picked at the white top I was wearing (when did I get clothes?) and realized with detachment that I was probably about four years old, if that.

I was supposed to be fourteen.

I shrugged at myself, and tackled the challenge of climbing off the bed—first crawling out of the blankets and discovering that my coordination was at an all-time low, I did my best to awkwardly fit into a body too small for me and fell to the wooden floor.

The thud must've called my presence to attention, because at that moment several more creatures of unfamiliar status entered the room, the largest rushing over and pulling me to my feet (where I wobbled precariously for a few moments before grabbing hold of the bed next to me).

"Goodness, how are you feeling?" the brunette woman asked, kneeling before me with a hand to her mouth, the other touching my shoulder. She was a mother, it glowed in her eyes.

I nodded, not knowing what else to do and not trusting my voice. My throat still hurt, and I'd gotten a feeling that the pain would never truly recede. I prayed that it would. A child's hope.

"What's your name, dear?"

Shit. A question that wasn't yes-or-no compatible. I flexed my jaw a little bit, and twitched my fingers, wishing I had a pen and paper. "K—Ka…li," I muttered, the sounds hoarse and broken, and it hurt so much. I rubbed at my throat, but it wasn't more than a comforting gesture to myself. "Kali," I said again, then shut up.

"Kali?" I nodded. "Does your throat hurt, Kali? Maybe we could get you some medicine for that?" She placed her hand on my other shoulder, holding me at arms length to get a good look at me.

I wasn't looking back at her, but instead focused on the smaller beings hidden behind her—the girl from before, and two boys, both blond but one had blue eyes and the other gold. The golden-eyed one was in front of the blue-eyed boy, as if protecting him. Was he older than the blue-eyed? They looked of similar build—maybe they were twins.

The woman was still talking, but she'd stood up now and began to head towards the door. The golden-eyed boy approached me, surveyed me with pride as if I were a treasure he'd found, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Ed! This is my little brother Al, and that's Winry. We found you!"

Found me? Huh.

I shook his hand and smiled shyly. I worried about doing something that might upset them, and I wondered warily why their names sounded familiar.

They dragged me to the dining room and we all sat down (Al pulled out a chair for me and said, "sit here!"), but it wasn't until the woman had brought out food and the boys had called her 'mom' that it clicked.

Fullmetal Alchemist. Of course. The fictional world of fictional beings. Bits and pieces of the Knowledge came back to me, but I knew there was an eternity of things I didn't know, and never in my life had I felt so perilously helpless.

* * *

Trisha, the mother, was never able to pull out of me where I was from or why her sons found me in the middle of a field, so she decided to keep me.

Yeah, like a pet. But only Ed would say so.

I was given the second bedroom—Al still slept in his brother's room as much as he could anyways, so they simply moved his things into Ed's, leaving the second bedroom incredibly empty. Trisha assured me that I'll get treasures to fill it with too, and that put me at ease.

They were such a wonderful family. At breakfast, Ed and Al were practically falling into their oatmeal they were so tired. Fifteen minutes later they were running in the fields with Winry, and ate lunch on the porches—peanut butter and jelly. Dinners were a full affair where sometimes the Rockbells would come over, or the Elrics would go next door.

Winry told me her parents were far away, helping people. I never saw them.

For the first couple of days, my health was too poor to join the boys and Winry in the fields, so I stayed inside, or sat on the porch. Trisha started teaching me how to read, but when she was busy with errands or making food, I would swipe a pencil and paper and doodle.

The drawings were my treasures.

They were way better than a four-year-old should be able to draw, but they weren't exactly perfect either. And no one but I would be able to make sense of them.

There was the Gate. Vague sketches of the homunculi. A teenager in a coat, a suit of armour and a pocket watch. Metallic limbs in pieces, and lots of fire.

I drew things from the Other world, too. High tech cars, buildings that touched the sky. Computers and cell phones, weapons and toys. Mundane things like roller blades or environmentally-friendly light bulbs, little things that reminded me of home.

I hid the drawings in a loose floorboard Al showed me when I first arrived at the Elric's household. I worried that Trisha would find them, but I knew Ed and Al probably wouldn't infringe on my privacy until they were much older and thought it would be important.

I didn't speak much, and sometimes it still hurt when I did, so conversations were more of the other person talking at me. I was a wonderful listener, they said, just sitting and staring.

Then Ed started talking about the books.

He was five, knew how to read and was teaching his brother. Already, he was a genius, and I was the only person he hadn't showed himself to. So he talked about his father's study, all the books and notes. He explained Alchemy, and pulled out a piece of chalk to describe the circles. "I'll show you sometime," he said, and after dinner as Trisha was cleaning up, he dragged Al and I to Hoenheim's study.

It was as Ed said. It was messy, but only because the boys were mucking about for weeks on end. Books were neatly in the shelves, but the lack of dust said the boys had been pulling them off the shelves and putting them back, probably in the wrong order.

I was starting to puzzle out Amestrian— the language was written as if Japanese were its basis, so in comparison to English the sentences were backwards. The words, though, were the understandable part. I was already speaking Amestrian, thank the Gate, so I picked it up easily enough to determine that more than half the titles on the shelves had the words "Alchemy" or "Renkinjutsu" (the variation of Alchemy) somewhere in them.

Ed and Al babbled on about what they'd learned while I tried to read the titles.

"Here, I'll make you something!" Ed pulled out a piece of chalk.

"Kali, Kali, watch this, Ed's great at this!" Al babbled, hovering over his brother's shoulder as the older boy drew a circle and began adding lines.

They briefly discussed the circle's structure before Ed clapped his hands together, then onto the edge of the circle.

Alchemic light is like electricity, but it isn't like a light bulb being turned on either. It could only be described as pure energy, and very scary.

I held in a scream. The energy whipped my hair around my ears, and I covered my eyes with my hands, waiting for the light to die down.

"Kali, look, look!" Al cried, and Ed picked something off the floor as I pulled my hands away.

Ed handed me a small wooden figure of what could roughly be described as a cat. He was grinning proudly at it, and it was, all in all, pretty good.

"For you!" Ed said, and I smiled back.

"Thanks," I told him. "Show Mama?"

"Yeah! Let's go!" Ed grabbed my free hand, Al laughing behind us as we raced down the hall and to the kitchen.

"Mom! Mom! Look what I made for Kali!" Ed shouted.

Trisha turned away from the sink, drying her hands, and I held up the figure of the cat with a grin.

"Wow, Ed! How pretty!" She smiled, and said to me, "looks like you've got a treasure, Kali!"

I blinked for a moment, then grinned wider—she was right. Besides the pictures that I'd doodled myself, this figure was really my only possession.

Even my clothes were borrowed from Winry.

The figure earned a spot on the windowsill next to my bed.

* * *

In ten minutes, I'd forgotten what skin felt like.

It had been happening frequently but at random, little slips in my humanity that made me question just how sane I was, and how much I'd lost along with those ten years of physical life.

I would forget simple things, like the feel of skin or what mundane words such as 'book' or 'stove' meant. It was momentary, fleeting even, until I had to remind myself or have someone else remind me, but I was almost certain Trisha thought something was wrong.

I didn't know what to think. Forgetting how to pick up your fork at dinnertime was slightly embarrassing, but could easily be corrected by staring at someone else's use of the utensil until I had it under control. But it was a little obvious that I was slipping up when I stared at the chair beforehand, trying to figure out how I should pull it away from the table. Or when I couldn't use my left hand for an hour and Ed found me sitting on the porch bending every joint and flexing it every way I could. Just to make sure it worked, just to figure out _how _it worked.

It wasn't until my legs stopped working one afternoon that I realized my body was reworking how to live.

It was like newborns learning to take their first steps, but each portion of learning was segregated into a series and stretched out into a schedule. The learning itself was sped up mainly because of my intensified intellect, yet at the same time when I bent my left hand and twitched each finger, it felt like I hadn't done so my entire life. It was almost compulsive in the way that I had to do everything over again, learn everything a second time, _know _everything.

Learning was my strong point. I wondered if Trisha would send me to school. The boys had mentioned that it was summer; school didn't start for another two weeks. But even then, was I with this family long enough for Trisha to allow me that privilege? Did I _need _that privilege?

If I wanted to act as normal as possible (which wasn't going to happen anyways because I was _far _too old to fit into a four-year old's body), then I had to keep my learning pace at the same as the other kids'. Tedious. Yet, someone once said that learning is simply understanding something you already understood, but in a new way.

* * *

"Kali! Come with us! Please?" Ed tugged at my hand, Winry and Al hovering just off the porch steps behind him.

Even though Ed was asking, I really didn't have much of a choice in the matter. I was pulled away from the house and down the road, Ed eventually letting go of my hand to chase after his brother, who'd made a smart remark about the hand-holding thing.

We were children. I didn't let it bother me. I couldn't keep up with their pace, though, and wobbled slowly behind, Winry politely walking with me instead of shouting at them to slow down.

"Geez, boys," she huffed, and I let out a giggle at her pouting face. She smiled at me, and we both ended up in soft laughter that left the two brothers in confusion at what we could possibly be talking about.

They took me into the main town, where there was a market—one of those almost festival-like things—where farmers and travellers gathered to sell their wares in smaller towns such as Risembool. There was art in all forms, nick-knacks no one needed, tools, jewellery, patterned cloth ranging from burlap to silk. There was a man telling stories to a few children, a younger guy buying his girlfriend a flower. Wives looked at the food stalls and husbands held tankards of ale. It was a wonderful hullabaloo of people and socialization, and I wondered why Trisha wasn't with us.

Who would let a group of four- and five-year-old kids wander the town alone?

But I saw the reason not five minutes into the crowd—people, locals most likely, were waving at the brothers and Winry, calling their names, calling greetings, stopping to say hello and ask how the family at home was doing.

Trisha didn't raise her boys on her own, and it wasn't just Granny Pinako who helped her. The entire town took the place of Father-figure.

Ed was in a corner listening to a man explain the process of glass-blowing. Al held my hand so I wouldn't get lost in the crowds, and Winry talked to a blacksmith. Looking around, I could see some men with their own children spot us and examine the people closest to us as if searching for a threat.

I felt safe.

Sitting on the corner of a building was a very old man. He had on a coat that had once been some sort of colour, but was now nearly as brown as the dirt beneath his feet. His hair, what little of it that was left, was silver, or white, but unwashed, and he stared not at the people but down at his scuffed boots. He was very sad, one look would tell.

Al had placed two coins—Cens, I was told, the currency was strange—in my hand and told me I could buy something for myself with them. I looked at the stalls, and back at the man. Wrinkles in his face told of laughter and once-upon-a-time happiness.

I turned to one of the tables and bought a necklace, the pendant on the chain resembling a gear, like the kind that made clocks work. The lady I bought it from put it in a box, and I asked her if she had a pen.

Moments later, I placed that box in front of the sad homeless man. The words on the box said, in shaky Amestrian, "To Sir, With Love."

I tried to blend with the crowd quickly, but I looked back in time to see the sadness melt away, wrinkles turning up as he smiled at the box, then curiously scanned the crowd. I knew he'd probably seen the green dress I was wearing, so I decided to remain as anonymous as possible and went to find Al.

He too, was smiling at me. "That was a nice thing," was all he said, taking my hand again and leading me back to Ed and Winry, who were listening to a storyteller.

* * *

The walk home was almost too scenic. We'd left before the sun had set, and the sky was just turning orange when we made it within view of the Rockbell household. Winry ran inside, waving to us as we walked passed the place towards Trisha's.

We all kept yawning, stomachs growling, as we made our way up the last bit of hill to the front porch, and Trisha opened the door to greet us. Delicious smells wafted out from inside, and I swear I saw Ed drool.

"Mom!" Al exclaimed, and the boys ran towards the woman, talking at the speed of light, describing their day in much detail. She smiled and nodded, listening even as she coaxed them inside and sat them down at the dinner table, sparing a moment to direct that smile to me with a pat on the head.

I felt… proud of myself. Proud to be a part of their small family.

By the end of the day, half the towns-people knew my name and story. I was fully accepted as 'Edward and Alphonse's friend', though Ed kept introducing me as his 'Pet Kali' as if I were an exotic animal.

I grinned at the echoing voices in my head, the festival-like atmosphere reminding me of circuses and other such events, leaving children like us exhausted and content with life.

* * *

I first started noticing signs of Trisha's weakness a month after the festival. She would pause in her chores to cough into her sleeve, or when the boys were out she would take naps too often. She moved slower, but still kept up a happy smile for her oblivious boys.

The weaker she got, the more I helped out around the house. I even managed to coax Ed and Al out of the study with promises of cookies if they'd help make dinner, or hang up the laundry.

Trisha noticed my deeds, but didn't say anything.

For a few days, all I could think of was my own mother. For a few days, that was all I could draw.

And then, Trisha hinted that they were low on some vegetables—Ed offered to get some, and Al and I didn't want to be left behind. I trailed after them slowly, looking back to the house every now and then until it was out of sight and we'd arrived at the vegetable field.

Ed handed some coins to the farmer, and we spent a while picking out the best veggies we could find—I was taught how to tell the difference between a ripe tomato and a tomato that was going to rot, and we all pricked our fingers too many times to really care by the end of it.

But when we got to the house, Trisha was on the floor, unconscious.

Ed and Al ran to her immediately. I picked up her hand and checked her pulse, then ran to the Rockbell's house.

* * *

When Trisha died, none of us knew what to do.

Ed and Al took the spare bedroom at the Rockbell's house, and I shared a bed with Winry. The townspeople came at a trickling pace to deliver condolences and casseroles, and Pinako planned the funeral.

Ed sat in a corner with an alchemy book, most of the time, and Al didn't do anything at all, just sat at the table and sometimes stared at the board of pictures on the wall. Winry tried to cheer them up, but there was nothing either of us could do.

I dealt with the grief in my own way. Trisha had become my foster mother, so to speak, and it was a harsh blow for all of us. Should I cry? Should I hide behind a book like Ed? What was appropriate? I sat on the Rockbell's porch, blank paper and pencil in my hand, for hours.

* * *

The funeral was attended by the entire Resembool population, but as the sun set, the people disappeared, leaving just myself and the boys. Winry bothered me to leave the graveyard, but I couldn't yet—I stood a few steps behind the boys.

"We're going to bring her back," Ed had said at one point.

Tears rolled off my cheeks.

That night, I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, bare feet hitting wood. I thought of the drawings back in the Elric's house, but didn't dare risk getting them. I slipped on some black pants, my usual green dress, and headed downstairs. I placed a folded piece of paper on the table almost carelessly, and hurried to put my shoes on. I'd readied a small bag beforehand with two changes of clothes, the cat figurine Ed made, and a small bit of money.

I slipped out the door and down the road, looking back only once at the Rockbell's house, and the Elric's house.

I made a wish, knew it would never come true, made another, and left.

* * *

Stowing away on a midnight train was harder than it sounded, yet easier than I predicted.

There were several large crates being loaded onto the train, each filled with an uneven number of boxes. Like Tetris, I removed packages from one crate and managed to fit them into the other crates without much trouble, leaving a space large enough for a small child. I was proud of myself, but the sinking feeling of dread was settling in my stomach, and I was very tired.

I climbed into the box, waited until it was loaded onto the train, and fell asleep.

I woke with bruises all over my body from the jolting of the train. It was coming to a stop, whistling and screeching, and I climbed out of the crate with my bag, looking around the dark boxcar before focusing on a hole in the side as a point of light.

I would never be able to tug the door open, and so waited until someone came along and opened the door of the boxcar. Lucky for me, he continued on towards the next boxcar to open that one too, ignoring the content of each.

I hopped to the ground—big drop—and scrambled off the tracks and onto the train platform. It was early in the morning, and the station, as big as it was, was fairly empty. A few people in blue uniforms milled about with nothing better to do, and people passed each other in a swift and businesslike manner. No one wanted to socialize before the sun came up.

I didn't know where I was, let alone where I was going, but I knew I couldn't go back to Ed and Al—I couldn't watch them grow up striving for the impossible thing that will hurt them. The Knowledge wouldn't let me know exactly what it was that they were going to do, but It let me know that it was going to be horrible and painful, and I'd reasoned out that it was forbidden as well.

Human transmutation.

So I hurried along cobblestone streets, rows and rows of cookie-cutter townhouses, white picket fences and early-morning dog walkers. The place was huge, nothing at all like Resembool, and everything felt new and confusing.

In this body, I'd never been to a city before, but I knew that where I came from was full of them.

I wandered until I found a bakery, where I bought the cheapest bun I could find and sat at a table for twenty minutes, savouring the pitiful breakfast. I was thirsty, but didn't drink anything until the waitress brought me a free glass of water—the woman was young, and kind, but very busy.

I moved on, farther and farther into the city. I passed a government building surrounded with walls, like a fortress, blue-clothed guards standing on either side of the gate holding their guns like toy soldiers.

I curled up against the flat wall of a building, facing a square with a clock tower in the middle. I was waiting, watching the people passing carefully.

I was ignored.

* * *

Around noon, a little boy passed by holding his mother's hand. He tugged her over to me, placed a sugar bun on the ground at my feet, and was pulled away by his mother.

"Selim," she scolded, "just ignore those people!"

All the while, he had a blank face, but I could feel the not-ness about him that put me on edge. I stared after the two, holding the bun, and Selim turned back and met my eyes, this time with an almost evil smile.

That was not a human child.

I ate the bread and did my best to pretend I never met that boy. But as the day passed and I continued my wanderings, I kept in mind that it was the last piece of food that I was able to eat that day—I didn't have enough money for even the cheapest of breads, nor did I have anything worth selling.

That night, I fell asleep on a park bench (they're a lot comfier when your four years old and dead tired). It was colder than I expected—I didn't have a boxcar and crate to block out the winds and chills anymore. I barely got any sleep.

The next day was a repetition of the first, just with less food and more wandering. I was drifting through a residential area full of apartment buildings, passing the occasional stranger, when one stopped in his tracks, turned around, and called out.

"Hey, kid," he said.

I stumbled, having gotten used to being ignored by people, and turned slowly and a little fearfully.

The man approached, hands in his pockets as he crouched to meet my height. He was old, and looked a little bit sad, but he was clean and smelled of soap.

I glanced at the ground, unable to meet his eyes—there was shame for abandoning the boys, shame for leaving everyone in such weakness, and pain from Trisha's death that let me do so—but I couldn't help but notice the necklace he wore outside his jacket.

It was the gear pendant, the one I gave to the old homeless man in Resembool. I wondered briefly if he recognized me, but my logical mind came up with the idea that maybe he felt a debt to be paid to the kindness of children, and picked a child at random.

His next words, though, gave the answer.

"We've met before, haven't we?" He smiled at me, sadness melting away in his wrinkles.

I shifted my gaze to the side, this time more shy, and nodded jerkily.

"Is everything alright, kid? I don't see your brother anywhere," he glanced around, searching for someone else.

Brother. He thought Al was my brother—I was flattered, almost happy, before I remembered that I left Al, left Ed and Winry. I didn't deserve their family.

"Hey, now, don't make that face. What happened? Why're you here alone?"

In my mind's eye, I saw Trisha, but I knew I couldn't blame my decisions on her death.

"Stupid—," I choked out, "Stupid decisions." My throat burned.

"…Whose decisions?" He was less cheerful, now, not trying to match a child's level of intelligence. He was just trying to gain an understanding, now.

I fixed my gaze to the fluttering window curtain of an apartment.

"Mine. Trisha, d-dead. Bad things are—," I stopped there. My choppy way of speaking could never properly get across _what _bad things were coming while still portraying a four-year-old persona.

"Bad things, huh?" He nodded as if he knew what I meant. "Do you have a name, kiddo? How 'bout a place to stay?"

"Kali. No." I hung my head again.

"Kali, would you like to stay at my house? I can't, in good conscience, let a kid like you to wander the streets alone. And 'sides, I owe you a bit," he tapped the pendant on his chest.

I shrugged slightly and shuffled uncomfortably on my feet. Logic said that I should go with this man, he meant no harm and I needed food and proper sleep. Guilt said I didn't deserve anything, let alone the wonderful kindness of a stranger. My brain was scrambled from being fourteen and four all at once, and the four-year-old was too trusting, the fourteen-year-old too tired.

But the man held out his hand and I took it, and we headed in the direction he came from.

The old man was named Carter. He lived in a small, two bedroom house, the second bedroom previously his 'study', pretty much a room with a small spare bed and a bunch of unpacked cardboard boxes. He said it was where I could stay, and that I could either make myself at home or come with him to his workplace.

He never said where he worked, so I said I'd stay at the house.

I took an hour or so to nap on the bed, then set to work sorting through the boxes. They were full of books, titles too complicated for me to read yet, but in one box was a bunch of boards and a construction map to build a bookshelf.

It was like one of those simple do-it-yourself shelves, and I had the first few levels pieced together in no time. I had to stand on the bed to get anything more than three levels of shelving together, and managed five before I gave up on the top piece and just started stacking books together.

I swept the floors in the kitchen and dining room also, looking for something to do before collapsing back into the bed some time in the afternoon and sleeping until the morning.

I was called to the kitchen early by delicious smells and the sound of someone singing.

Carter noticed me in the door and handed me two plates and a bunch of utensils, telling me to set the table, I did so without complaint, and as he waited for the food to cook he danced around the kitchen, waving a spatula as if it were a conductors baton.

I allowed myself to smile, fending off the threatening tears. I thought of Trisha baking cookies, how I would get Ed and Al to help set the table and carry dishes of potatoes or other food to the table for dinner.

If asked, I would have admitted that the old man was an ally, and in time, he would grow on me.


End file.
